


A Living Epitaph, He pt. II

by Moonfireflight



Series: A Living Epitaph, He [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 5.0 spoilers, And is where i diverge most from canon, Banter, Blood, F/M, Gen, It takes place after the first trial, Nonsense, Pining, Shadowbringers Spoilers, The last part gets a bit dark, idiots having trouble with feelings, okay that's not really fair to them but it's funny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-19 22:50:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19981849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonfireflight/pseuds/Moonfireflight
Summary: In which I introduce my OC WoL with alarming brevity, run us through the Shadowbringers MSQ in a huge hurry so I can focus on the slightly off canon juicy bits of convo as WoL and Emet-Selch attempt to figure out feelings and exactly what is going on.Edit: Fixed several random missing or mangled words because my brain clearly wasn't screwed in properly when I did my proofreading.I consent to the OTW terms of service and explicitly deny rights to reprint, share, or redistribute this work on any platform not owned by OTW. #





	A Living Epitaph, He pt. II

_Such a bother_. 

He  _ should  _ be mustering forces to stop the meddlesome woman, but what was the point? This shard had already fallen to the Light and was teetering on the edge of collapse. It just needed a  _ teensy  _ little push and it was Over. If she wanted to bring her futile battle here, what of it? 

Emet-Selch sighs and shifts his weight, chin resting heavy against his palm. There were several perfectly good reasons not to care one whit about her petty crusade, indeed. He holds not the blind overconfidence of his fellows. There was every chance she would succeed in slaying the remaining Lightwardens. If nothing else, she has a knack for the impossible. Trying to stop her outright had proven to be a rather deadly sport, which is part of why he’s always preferred meddling to outright combat. It would be a hassle, but he can always start his work on the First again. It would just be a brief intermission before the grand finale. 

Gazing up at the newly darkened sky, he realizes he’s eager to see how this all plays out. Perhaps, with a soul such as hers, a new ending may be written after all. 

***

With the windows of her temporary home on the First left wide open, Kara gazes up at the stars with fresh wonder. The harsh light that drowned this place for so long was almost unbearable, prompting her to switch from her usual circlet or stylish hat to a full cowl that nearly hid her face. Back on Eorzea, her attire might have gotten her a questioning look or two but here… She smiled as she continued to brush her long black hair. Here, men whispered about the Warrior of Darkness, and, beneath that beautiful velveteen sky dotted with diamonds, she delighted in the title. 

In quiet moments like this, she could almost forget the seething Light inside of her. She could ignore the feeling of it slowly eroding her heart and its newfound comfort in darkness. 

From the moment she awoke to the echo and the disquieting vision of streaking meteors that accompanied it, she found no time nor interest in frivolities. Yet here was the fierce warrior, wielder of black magics, slowly running a brush through her raven locks and thinking fondly of a moment,  _ not a person _ , she tells herself. 

***

A voice called down from one of the lower platforms of Fanow. “Wait, Kara! Don’t go wandering off with  _ him _ of all people. Are you mad?” Kara laughed and waved up at Thancred, who was leaning precariously over the edge and trying to beckon her back up. 

“I’ll be fine!” she shouted back, laughing as Thancred waved her away in clear annoyance, heading back into Fanow proper. 

The man beside her raised an eyebrow at her reply, somewhat taken aback by her apparent trust. Could he read her mind, he’d find she was just as surprised. He’d grown bored of waiting for the rest of her party to pack and up leave the woods, and had spotted the Warrior pacing in place and staring off to the north. On a whim, he’d invited her to walk with him. Her earlier fascination with the Ronkan ruins was… He frowned at the irritating sensation in his chest at the thought, yet here they were, traipsing through the forest together. 

“So Warrior, do I truly seem so frail that you have no fear of me now?” 

Kara barked out a laugh. “Did you not forget your act of goodwill earlier in saving Y’shtola? I’ve simply decided to return the favor and stop heckling you. At least for now.” 

He shrugged. “A life for half a day of peace? Truly the hero of the realms is endlessly magnanimous! I’m humbled.” 

“Oh no, tis I who should be humbled!” 

Her grin was utterly infuriating. Though he was well aware that he was stepping into one of her traps, he played along. “Is that so?”

She turned to him, beaming. “Indeed! The ancient lorekeeper and  _ terrifying _ Ascian Paragon has deigned to walk with me rather than taking yet another nap in the trees!” 

“Going back on your word already, my dear? That sounds like heckling to me. Alas, how far our hero has fallen, and so quickly too.” The sound of a twig snapping behind him drew his attention from his mocking monologue, and he turned to see the woman recovering from apparently having stumbled. “I didn’t mean that literally, you know.” 

He couldn’t help but laugh when she marched past him in a huff, promoting herself to pathfinder, it seemed. As she charged by, Emet-Selch didn’t catch the pink tint of her cheeks she’d been so determined to hide. 

Once the heat of her face died down, she began to question him about the Ronkan artifacts that walked the area and was disappointed to find that he hadn’t cared enough about the history of the First to pick up anything worth knowing. “I’m sure they fell as any  _ civilization _ does eventually- on their own sword,” was all he had to say on the matter. Any questions about his past were deflected just as easily. She had hoped for him to tell her another tale of the past, his voice calm and resonant as he shared his stories. Yet she found that even walking in silence with the man was not as uncomfortable as she would have expected. 

_ I should see him as my enemy, I know it. But I can sense he wants to show me something. There’s a sadness in him that seems on the verge of drowning him, and I want to know why… _

“Thank you for gracing me with your presence, Warrior,” he said, pausing in front of the walkway up to Fanow and bowing low. 

She replied with a deep curtsy. “I thank you for yours as well, sir! But, a question, if you would.”

“Haven’t you asked enough questions for one day? You’re on the verge of breaking our truce, I fear.” Emet-Selch leaned back against one of the posts and crossed his arms, waiting. 

“Oh dear. I wouldn’t want to do that. But, I just wondered - why do you always call me Warrior instead of my name?” 

Any reply he would have given was thrown to the side as her companions appeared, making their way to the ground as well, walking past Emet-Selch without giving him a glance. “Kara, art thou fully prepared and ready for us to make our way back to the Crystarium?” 

Urianger tilted his head at the long pause before she confirmed she was good to go, but chose not to pry. With a heavy feeling in her chest, fearing that she had missed a chance to learn something important about the Ascian, Kara fell in automatically with her group as they headed away from Fanow. 

***

Despite the harrowing adventures they’d had in Rak’Tika, all had ended well. She recalled briefly breaking away from her group to fly through the twisting boughs of the massive trees that kept the area dim even during the endless day. At night, it was another spectacle altogether, with lanterns hanging from branches, and ancient crystals and glowing flowers below. The warm and earthy scent of the forest was different from the Shroud back home, though she couldn’t pinpoint exactly how, enjoying it all the same. 

A quick flight over the ruins let her see their layout more precisely than she could from the ground, and she made a mental note to sketch it out in her journal later. Still, her unanswered questions about Emet-Selch kept popping up and interrupting her thoughts. She turned her chocobo around a bit harder than she meant to, earning an annoyed “wark!” and made her way back to the Crystarium. 

***

Those same questions began to percolate in her mind again, so she slams her hairbrush down on the dresser before getting ready for bed in a huff. The stars watch over her, their Warrior of Darkness, as she falls into a slumber, strange dreams of faceless robed figures blissfully forgotten come morning. 

***

Living for thousands of years means plenty of chances to make mistakes. 

In his time among the shards, Emet-Selch rarely bothers to look closely at the souls of the halfmen around him. Most of them are so dim they don’t even register - diluted in the overall aether like just another drop of water in an ocean. Lahabrea had been the first to see her soul and recognize the Warrior as another being from The Source. A person of interest whose soul had been rejoined with the souls of other Warriors from other worlds. 

As irritating as his old friend could be, he wishes he were still here for many reasons. He would ask him why he never mentioned the color of her soul - if he had realized who she was. Then again, it shouldn’t matter to any of them as the Warrior stands in opposition to their will and to that of Zodiark, regardless of who she is or once was. Perhaps Lahabrea was right to leave the past out of their equations. 

Yet what was all their work for  _ but _ for the past? 

Why won’t he call her by the name she’s known by in this life? Because it’s a farce. Because it is proof that she doesn’t remember. It’s just another way these pathetic splinters of their world have found to betray him. He watches her and her friends walk away, and with an irritated snarl, he retreats to the rift. 

***

A little behind them, the people of this shard are scurrying about like ants after their nest has been kicked by a bratty child. And that’s how he should see her - a meddling annoyance who needs to be taught a lesson. Instead, he sees a woman, her long black hair dancing on the wind as she gazes proudly at the men and women she’s inspired to work together. She’s always had a knack for gathering disparate souls and getting them to combine their might and wills toward a singular goal. Perhaps he should hate her for that too, considering she was the catalyst for the second Grand Summoning. But he can’t. He’s too old and too tired for hatred, and the hue of her soul too familiar. 

If she could but recall her origin, there may be another way. Or maybe he’s made another mistake in telling her a little more about their shared past. The futility of it weighs heavily on his shoulders. “Not that you would remember any of this,” he says with a sigh. He lets the words hang in the air, hopeless yet starving for any hint that… 

There! He sees it in her eyes for a fleeting moment, a fraction of a second. He tries to cast it aside with a dismissive shake of his head, but the specter of it remains, brushing against his thrumming heart. In the decades he’d inhabited iterations of this form, he still often found himself unused to the physical reactions behind his emotions. 

Kara’s green eyes meet his and her brow creases. She stands tall but within, emotions crash through her like fitful waves against a rock. His words left her stricken with a cruel pang of nostalgia, but she can’t understand why. Perhaps she merely longs for a time as peaceful as he described, she thinks, but that logic isn’t enough to chase away the ache in her chest. There’s something she’s forgetting… something vast and terrible and beautiful. Like a word that refuses to leave your tongue when you try to speak. She needs to know more. “...Remember?” 

What is the sorrow that tints her words and contorts her face? Pity? Does she  _ pity _ him? The chains that wrap themselves around his heart, pulling him down, beckoning him to give up - now there’s a sensation he could do without. He feels weak, yet he can’t deny the urge to give in and sink back down to seek refuge among the phantasmal ruins. Nor can he deny the hope he felt at that flicker of remembrance he saw sparkling in her eyes. 

***

Thancred takes a step forward, growling “Get away from her!” The rest of her friends are just as high strung, though silent. They are all on the verge of springing forth to her rescue at any hint of danger. She sighs, exhausted and irritated by their lack of understanding, and holds up a hand to stay them. 

Emet-Selch kneels before her, simply watching as she wages her internal war with the Light. Anyone who couldn’t see the aether churning within her would think she was merely catching her breath after the burdensome battle with Vauthry. Ever the Warrior, she. 

The halfmen of two worlds now saw her as a hero of lore. She’s gotten used to carrying on her shoulders the ponderous weight of being the only one to step forward and right terrible wrongs, defeating summoned beasts and corrupt leaders alike. Warrior of Light. Warrior of Darkness. Whatever role she played, she showed up on cue and delivered her lines with aplomb. And here she is, brought low by the Light that worries away at her soul, eager to sink its teeth into her marrow. 

So he observes the poise that she retains even while deep inside, she knows the unenviable fate that awaits her, and he’s almost impressed. Yet, every one of her victories can easily be undone given enough time and patience. All of the tiny little struggles of mankind amount to a single grain of sand on a beach. Once their plans are complete, even the death of Lahabrea…

_ You should hate this woman. This meddling fragment, this thorn in your side, this _ … 

Even several times rejoined, their  _ great hero _ lacks the will to control the Light. He knows this should be trivial for  _ her _ soul, and his frustration turns molten inside of him, ready to set him alight and fuel a scathing retort that would shame these pale souls into oblivion.

But then, she looks up at him. She sees his lip curled in an ugly sneer, eyes narrowed, and yet she smiles. Their eyes meet and he remembers all over why he’s walked with her even as she unraveled his carefully laid plans time and time again. The soul that’s being whittled away by hateful Light is, though dim, of a color that he will never forget and that he longs for his world to be filled with again. The endless tides within him swell, dousing his anger under a deluge of emotions he has tried to ignore for centuries. Bereft of his armor of scorn, he cannot see the Warrior as anything other than this - the same seafoam green that fills the “sky” of his underwater domain when the light hits it just so… 

He sighs and places a hand on her cheek, and she doesn’t flinch. Under that blinding sky, amidst wracking pain, she gives over to the part of her that has yearned to trust him and longed for something more. 

Relieved that she doesn’t shy away from his touch, he dares to hope. Perhaps… “Kara. I can see you fighting it, even though the Light sears your very heart.” The smile that graced her lips, hearing her name from his for the first time, falters and her muscles tense as she fights back another wave of racking pain. “Focus on my voice.” He wants to tell her he can undo this, that he can save her, but those words of heresy die upon his tongue. “Listen to me…,” he says, buying time as he seeks a way around and through the patterns laid upon him so long ago. Perhaps if she could but remember… Temporary cruelty would be the only way to pave this path. 

“I can see your aether as easily as you can see my face before you, and  _ you are losing _ . The victory of the Light and your descent into madness is inevitable.” Her face falls at his words but he presses on. “Kara. Though you still yet retain your form and your wits, your heart is that of a sin eater already.” With a shaking hand, she clutches at her chest. She can feel the truth of his words in the unfamiliar rhythm beneath her palm. As he continues to speak, his voice sounds distant and watery in the white void that presses against the edges of her vision. 

“Your dear friends here have already ascertained this and, even now, they are wondering how they can possibly defeat you. You, a resplendent, rampaging demon of pure Light. Oh, and you will make a glorious monster - beautiful but mindless and hungering for every last drop of aether on this Shard until nothing is left. After slaking your thirst on your companions' aether, you will make yourself known to the rest of the world and all will cower at your visage as you descend upon them.”

She closes her eyes and turns away, wincing. It’s too easy for her to feel their bones snapping within her great maw. Hot blood coats her tongue and her victim’s screams die within her throat as she takes flight, six pairs of golden wings beating in tandem. Her long tail swishes with some remnant of that thing called happiness as the newly freed aether courses through her. Emet-Selch lunges forward, one hand firm on her shoulder, the other holding her chin, forcing her to see him, to understand. “You see it, yes? Your transformation is unstoppable.” A single tear slips down her cheek as she nods at his words. 

That tear, a near blinding reflection of the effulgent sky above, solidifies his resolve. “I am not so cruel as to relish in the picture I have painted. If you but wish it, Kara, I can spirit you away to my domain on this Shard. There you may meet your end with some dignity, away from prying eyes. The light thus wrested from your control will resume its sway over this planet, yes. But you, illustrious beast of feather and flesh, of gold and marble, seething with hatred… If you but come with me now, I vow to keep you.” Kara’s lips part and quiver, and he’s close enough to feel her sudden exhalation play at his hair. She’s too far gone to feel the expected, the logical revulsion at her reaction. His voice is the only sound she can hear above angelic heart pulsing repugnantly in her chest, and it resonates within her. Emet-Selch smirks at her unexpected response to his promise of captivity, letting out a huff of a laugh. 

He takes a step back, spreading his arms wide as he offers his strange proposal. “I will protect the world from you, and you from the world. What say you?” Reaching a hand towards her, he waits for her reply. 

A million and one excellent reasons to refuse his offer bloom and wither within her. The Warrior balks at the exhausted woman -  _ Fight this! Fight him! You know what chaos and death he has wrought! He is everything you stand in opposition to! _ Yet within, there is an ancient and well-worn path that she’s always walked. It is one of yearning with no direction - of nostalgia for a time and place she’s never known. Always, she has tread the path alone, but now she sees Emet-Selch standing before her, waiting for her to take his hand and lead her to her missing truth. 

And she does. Faintly she hears her friends fly to action, desperately screaming her name as they dash to a daring rescue, but the sound ceases as quickly as it starts. That searingly bright sky gives way to a blanketing cloud of purple and black that she feels as much as sees. Her rational mind tells her she should fear it but it brings her a measure of comfort instead. As it dissipates, she sees only darkness and a myriad of dim and distant lights as her eyes adjust, safe from the blinding world she’s been stolen away from. 

Her companion watches silently, wishing he knew what thoughts were swirling through her mind.  _ Would she remember?  _

Shapes begin to form in her vision. Amid a seemingly endless sea of softly glowing towers, stands spires peaked with needles of opaline crystal. Here and there, graceful waves of metal arc up above all but the tallest of the preposterously altitudinous towers. The foreign racket in her chest ceased when she arrived, so she understands that it is  _ her _ heart that aches for a lost time as her eyes scan this new horizon. Somehow she knows this is what she has been missing all her life, and she falls to her knees, hands scrabbling at sandy rock as she weeps. 

Her breath catches as she feels a hand on her shoulder, gentle and comforting. In the softest voice she has heard from him, Emet-Selch says, “Welcome home, my Persephone. Welcome to Amaurot.” 


End file.
